


Kiss Me Again, My Most Precious Creation

by Levis_turtles



Category: Victor Frankenstein (2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 06:45:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13230195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Levis_turtles/pseuds/Levis_turtles
Summary: Victor kisses Igor in the heat of the moment, and it all just spirals from there





	Kiss Me Again, My Most Precious Creation

**Author's Note:**

> So I watched Frankenstein last night and this ship literally hit me like a ton of bricks so HERE THEY ARE

The first time Victor kissed Igor, it was mostly an accident. They were discussing their creation – loudly, over several glasses of brandy – when Igor solved a gaping problem with such an astounding twist of logic that Victor quite literally couldn’t restrain himself.

 

“Brilliant!” He cried, cupping his partner’s face in his hands and, before he even knew what he was doing, surging forwards to smack a kiss against his lips.

 

It barely lasted a second. It was hard and chaste and the kind of kiss that one gave to one’s grandmother at a family gathering, but it was enough to make Igor blush and enough to make the heart in Victor’s chest hop and it was enough to leave Victor thinking about it for hours afterwards, alone in his room when the only place he wanted to be was across the hall in Igor’s.

 

...

 

The second time was slightly less of an accident. They were standing in the lab, watching Gordon breathe, and the only thing that Victor could think of – past the pride of his own achievement – was that none of it would have been possible without Igor.

 

That thought was what was fuelling him, Victor supposed, when he glanced at Igor from the corner of eye and saw only a thing of beauty. He liked to think that Igor was his most magnificent creation – that everything the man had become was Victor Frankenstein’s doing – but that wasn’t quite true. One could lead a horse to water, Victor remembered, but one could not make it drink. He had given Igor the opportunities to become the man that he had, but the most of the work had been Igor’s doing, and Igor’s doing alone. His mind, his beliefs, his ethics of work – that had all been there before.

 

All Victor had done was appreciate those things as they should have been appreciated all along.

 

Because when Victor had first met Igor, covered in makeup with a mat on his head, he had still been one of the most extraordinary things in Victor’s life. To meet a man like that, who with no resources and no helping hands, had become a physician that could save a life where Victor himself could not have, was remarkable, and Victor still believed that it was _that_ understanding of the circus clown that had marked the beginning of the very curious end.

 

Making his was towards the man now, Victor stared when Igor glanced in his direction. He was still so wary, still so worried that Victor would do something to him. Surely by now the boy could understand that Victor would rather cut off his own head than lay a finger on Igor’s. He placed a hand on the side of Igor’s neck, his thumb gently grazing the hard line of his jaw, and titled his head up to face him.

 

Igor’s eyes were searching, nervous, always in motion. He looked from one of Victor’s eyes to the other, to his mouth, to the shadow of his hand on his jaw. He looked as though the world made perfect sense to him in every other moment, but never in moments like this. Victor thought that he was wonderful, Igor thought that he was going to use him for spare parts. That was mostly Victor’s fault, he supposed – he had spent countless hours marvelling at Igor’s mind and his hands that he had neglected to mention his love and respect for the rest of the man.

 

He thought that he should do so now, in as few syllables as possible, and decided that the best was to show his admiration was in the way that admiration had been shown for centuries. Ducking his head, Victor kissed Igor on the corner of the mouth.

 

Jerking back almost immediately, Igor looked at Victor with wide, searching eyes. “Sir,” he said, “what are you doing?”

 

Victor’s lips twitched, a flurry of amusement. What did the boy suppose that he was doing, if not kissing one of the only men that he had ever truly loved? But he couldn’t say that – there was no way that Igor would understand the real implications of that – and so he let his hand slip away from Igor’s neck and said, “Nothing, Igor. I’m not doing anything.”

 

...

 

The third time was, Victor could admit, not his highest moment. He was drunk – so very, very drunk – and Igor was ferrying him home with an arm around his waist and giddy expression on his face. He was still so unused to socialising, so unaccustomed to being treated like an equal, that even when he wasn’t drinking he was as elated as the happiest drunk.

 

The Igor-assisted climb up to the apartment was difficult, as was the Igor-assisted shucking of clothes, but the falling in to bed and dragging Igor into it with him was one of the easiest things that Victor had ever done.

 

“Um, sir?” Igor questioned. “Is everything alright?”

 

“Oh, Igor!” Victor cried. “Everything is better that alright!” He wrapped his arms around his partner and turned to face him, and something in his expression made Igor laugh brightly.

 

He said, “You’re drunk, sir.”

 

“I am no more drunk than you are a hunchback,” Victor said. And then, because he had no impulse control when he was sober and even less when he was hammered, he ran his hand over the curve of Igor’s back. “You have a rather nice back, actually,” Victor said, and when Igor blushed, he took his chance.

 

Shoving his mouth at Igor’s was not the most _graceful_ way to go about it, Victor supposed, but it got the job done. He kissed Igor hard on the mouth and, when Igor gasped, Victor took it as permission to go exploring with his tongue. He kissed Igor for what felt like hours – hours that were probably only minutes – and only stopped when he realised that Igor was not kissing him back.

 

Pulling away, Victor saw shock on Igor’s face. He saw surprise, hesitation, embarrassed curiosity – but, Victor thought, no anger. He saw no hatred, no revulsion, no reason for him to apologise or to beg Igor for forgiveness.

 

Taking a chance, Victor lifted a hand to Igor’s face and ran his fingers over Igor’s cheekbone, alone the line of his jaw. He was a beautiful man – had been with the makeup and was even more so without it. Victor could no longer pretend that he was not in love with this man, that he did not adore him with all of his heart, and so it was with the closest thing to hope that he had felt in several years in his chest that Victor leaned forwards once again, and offered Igor a kiss.

 

This time, after a moment where Victor felt that he would never live this down, Igor moved, and then they were kissing. Igor’s hand was on Victor’s waist, warm and alive and everything that Victor had craved for so long. The embrace was soft, the kiss barely a whisper, and it felt so _right_ to Victor that he could almost believe that there was a god, if that god were this man in his arms.

 

They didn’t go further than kissing – there would be plenty of time for that in the future, Victor thought – and when they eventually stopped to breathe or to regain an understanding of reality, they fell asleep within each other’s arms.


End file.
